


Vintage

by rivkat



Category: Supernatural, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/pseuds/rivkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt from on_verra: One of the Winchester brothers gets into a fight with Damon Salvatore without even realizing that Damon's a vampire until after the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vintage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [on_verra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_verra/gifts).



> Timeline undefined but sometime post-S8 for SPN; references to Benny. Thanks to giandujakiss for beta.

"Say that again,” Dean suggested.

The guy smiled, like a sliver of wood shoved under a fingernail. “Don’t tell me your hearing is as ancient and decrepit as that car.”

“See,” Dean smiled, wide and unfriendly, “I know you’re just tryin’ to start something, because my car? She is a goddess. But that’s okay. You wanna go? I’m good,” and he was swinging before he’d finished, because it had been a long and frustrating day trying to get the locals to talk about all the mysterious deaths and he didn’t think he’d get run out of town for putting a beatdown on _this_ asshole, given how all the rest of the people in the bar had given him a wide berth.

Unfortunately, the guy’s jaw felt just about as sharp as it looked. Dean didn’t let it slow him down any. The guy got in a few good hits—Dean wasn’t feeling it yet, the fight pumping him full of adrenalin—and then they were rolling around the floor, digging fists into each other without enough distance to even call them punches.

Dean headbutted the guy and felt a flash of heat as a blood vessel burst in his nose, which spattered across the guy’s face—

Which _changed_.

Dean disentangled himself in a flat second, on his feet and reaching for his knife. He didn’t want to saw off a vamp’s head in public, but he’d gotten out of worse situations.

This one looked different, but Dean wasn’t about to analyze vampire subspecies mid-fight—

Suddenly he was across the room, being held there by a hot young blonde with a perky though strained smile. Over her shoulder, he could see the asshole similarly being restrained by some other dude.

“Hey,” the hot blonde said. “Damon is a real jerk, but that doesn’t mean you can saw his head off. If anyone kills him, it’ll definitely be me.”

Since she was holding him against the wall with what looked like no effort at all, Dean was willing to accept that she was capable of it. He didn’t let go of his knife. He had some of those specially modified bullets like the ones Chrissy had made, but what he didn’t have was the ability to go for his gun right now. “Somebody’s killing people in this town, and right now I’m guessing it’s one of you.”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “ _Everybody’s_ killing people in this town. Some days I think we have more murderers than we have Starbucks. But I’m a good guy, Stefan is totally under control, and Damon’s mostly tame.”

“And you are?” Dean squirmed a little, trying for a better angle. Not that he gave himself huge odds, but he had to try. Maybe she was one of those cow-drinking vampires, like Lenore had been.

“I’m Caroline,” she said, and gave him a huge smile as she released him and stepped back. “I don’t kill people. But if you’re here hunting vampires, we need to talk.”

‘Hunting’ turned out to mean something pretty specific to her, which took a while to sort out. At this point, there were so many secret societies collecting hidden knowledge that Dean half expected the Initiative from _Buffy_ to exist too. 

He sat with her at one of the booths and heard more (and believed maybe half of it, though he tried to keep his skepticism from showing), he called Sam and told him the basics: vampires, werewolves, witches, plus something called a hybrid which seemed about as nasty as an Alpha. “Where did you get this, Dean?” Sam asked, justly suspicious.

“Local informant,” he said. The asshole guy, who of course was named Damon, had joined his little pow-wow with Caroline, and grimaced at Dean’s description. “Look, I’m thinking we need to regroup, maybe up the arsenal a little. I’ll see you back at the room?”

This was supposed to be the signal for Sam to bug out. Not that he would, because they were both idiots like that—concern for Dean would probably be enough to keep him here, and anyway the hunt would tip the scales—but at least he wouldn’t return to the motel and he’d be watching his back.

“Got it,” Sam said and hung up. Sam was probably going to call Garth to see if there was any intel on this new subspecies of vampire or the little supernatural soap opera that appeared to be going down in Mystic Falls. What Sam wouldn’t do was charge in blind, since—as he never failed to point out—he wasn’t Dean.

“So,” Damon said, “this partner of yours—” he made it sound just that dirty—“is he going to be a problem?”

Dean gave him the side-eye. “Not for anybody who keeps their fangs inside.” He considered, and then decided on the truth, even though he couldn’t imagine they’d believe him. “Time was, we’d gank anything supernatural. But it’s not black and white. We only hunt killers now.”

“Yeah, I’m not fully reassured,” Damon said.

Caroline rolled her eyes. “That’s because you barely even count as reformed.”

“Not in front of the children,” Damon cautioned, his tone so oversweet that Dean wanted to punch him again just on general principles, not even to defend Caroline, who seemed like a nice … vampire. “So, Dean Winchester—” and his eyes did something Dean had never seen before. It was like watching a 3-D movie without the glasses; the world shivered. “Leave Mystic Falls. There’s nothing here for you to do.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean said, his head aching like the second day of a tequila bender.

“Good job, Damon,” Caroline said. “I’m shocked that a vampire hunter knew about vervain.”

Dean wasn’t out of it enough to react to that, even though he had no fucking clue what she was on about. Sam could look it up for him later. Okay, so these vampires had the whammy. Awesome. Maybe Dean’s tattoo had protected him, or maybe they’d just been messed with so many times by so many different kinds of creepy crawlies that he had some immunity.

“Fine,” Damon said. “I tried it the nice way.”

Dean blinked through the pain, his scowl making it pretty clear that he was going to enjoy explaining the difference between ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’ once his ability to stand up returned.

“My point is, the fatality rate for outsiders coming in and trying to rejigger the vampire/werewolf balance of power in this town is _over_ one hundred percent, which I guarantee is possible once witches are involved. I’m not trying to be altruistic, just practical. I can’t compel you, but I can tell you the truth: this can’t end well for you. There are plenty of other bad guys out there. You should go hunt them.”

And even though he’d just tried to mindfuck Dean, Dean didn’t think he was lying. Dean tried to stand, but the pressure in his head increased, and he fell back into the booth, huffing in pain.

Caroline sighed. “Look, you broke him, you get to take him back to his motel, or wherever rogue vampire slayers hang out.”

“You trust me with the wellbeing of a human who isn’t related to Elena?” Damon asked. “I’m touched.”

Caroline reached out and patted Dean on the arm. “I am really sorry about him. Just ignore everything he says.”

And somehow she was gone, and Damon was tugging him up. Dean could walk on his own, but he was wincing with pain and it was just easier to let Damon keep a hand on his shoulder, guiding him outside.

“You can leave your sexmobile in the parking lot,” Damon said—hah! Dean’d _known_ the guy was jealous—and led him to another classic, which made Dean stop and stare incredulously. Damon shrugged, unashamed. “At least to me, this is an innovation,” he said, which made Dean wonder just how old he was.

“So where am I taking you?” Damon asked. Dean had a momentary thought about getting into cars with strange men, which only proved that whatever Damon had done was still hitting him pretty hard. Vampire or not, skull splitting headache or not, Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t the one who ought to be worried in this situation.

Dean named the motel they’d rejected for being too close to the sheriff’s office, in case they’d needed to bust out the FBI suits. Sure, that wouldn’t give Sam much cover, given that he was at the only other motel within screaming distance of the town, but it was something.

Damon drove him in silence, and waited in his car while Dean went into the main office on the pretense that Sam had the room key.

“Well, thanks for everything,” Dean said, leaning down on the driver’s side window to say his goodbyes. At least he could walk straight now, even if he could’ve sworn there was a spike jammed into his brain by way of his right eyeball.

Damon’s mouth scrunched up. “I’m sorry,” he said reluctantly. “Compulsion shouldn’t hurt, even if you’re taking vervain. I don’t know what went wrong.” Sounded like that last was the most annoying part as far as he was concerned.

“No worries,” Dean said. 

Damon bit his lip. “Let me make it up to you.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. Damon got out of the car, went around to the trunk, and pulled out a bottle of—

“Is that Pappy Van Winkle?” Dean asked, hushed. “I’ve read about that stuff—”

Damon smiled, and he didn’t need pointy teeth to look like a predator. “Want to split it?”

Forty-five minutes later, Dean was painless and nearly weightless, or at least that was how he felt. Damon had started talking about his girl troubles a few shots in—Dean had the sense that Caroline’s general attitude of dislike was pretty standard for him, which was why he was confiding in a homicidal—vampicidal?—drifter instead of talking to someone who actually knew and cared about the people he was angsting about. Dean himself was lying on one of the beds, his feet on the ground but staring up at the ceiling, which seemed to be moving a little, if that wasn’t the drunk.

“Hey,” Damon said, as if a great idea had just occurred to him. “How many vampires have you killed?”

“Lifetime?” Dean pondered the question. “Twenty, maybe thirty.” 

He heard the creak of the other mattress shifting. “And have you ever had sex with one?”

“I don’t think I know you well enough to answer that question,” Dean said with careful dignity. Sam had come close enough to asking as had made no difference, and maybe it’d be easier to tell this stranger, but that didn’t mean Dean was in the mood for confessions.

“Do you want to?” And with what was either vampire speed or the stop-motion effects of half a bottle of premium hooch, Damon was looming over him, dark-haired and pretty and within spitting distance of Dean’s type.

“So, you got me drunk so’s I’d put out,” Dean observed as Damon knelt in front of him and began to work on his belt.

“That’s just a bonus,” Damon said. “I really am sorry.” He didn’t sound sincere, but Dean had the feeling that the tone was calculated to let him get away with saying things that were unfortunately true. Dean might’ve recognized it from his own life.

Dean let Damon get him naked, helping by not interfering any and even lifting up as required. Then he watched Damon’s own striptease. “Anyone ever sire a vampire who isn’t smoking hot?” he asked, reaching a hand down to help his growing hard-on, stroking it slowly, enjoying the feel of his own hand, dry and just shy of painful.

Damon smirked. “Only the young and pretty should get to live forever.” He didn’t have Sam’s muscles, but his abs could’ve been on the cover of a workout magazine. “I propose to suck you off—in the sex way, not the drinking way—and then fuck you.”

“Yeah, all right,” Dean said, like his cock hadn’t jumped as soon as Damon had said ‘suck.’

The thing about vampires was that, reflexes aside, they didn’t need to breathe. Damon took him all the way down his throat, gasflame eyes staring up Dean’s body amused and greedy as Dean groaned. He pulled off after a minute, and when Dean grunted a complaint, he licked his lips. “Aren’t you just a little worried I might fang out on you?” 

Dean’s hands fisted on the coverlet and he had to close his eyes.

“Ohhh,” Damon said, like he hadn’t already known, the bastard, “it’s like that, then.” And he bent back to his work. There wasn’t even a hint of his teeth, but Dean was still so keyed up that, even with the bourbon weighing him down, it wasn’t long before Dean’s thighs clenched and his whole body jolted with the orgasm, made better by the way Damon’s hands held his hips in place like they were made of iron.

Damon spat out, straight onto Dean’s hole, then worked his thumbs in to open him up, not gentle but not too fast. Dean felt a blurry moment of relief when Damon produced a condom, since he didn’t have the energy to win an argument about slightly safer sex (and who the fuck knew what kinds of diseases vampires might be carrying around, especially the sluttier ones like Damon). His cock was just right, thick enough that Dean would really be feeling it, not so big it would really hurt.

Dean was aware that he wasn’t doing a lot here, other than to wriggle and make approving noises, but Damon seemed to have the fuck well under control, and Dean was willing to bet that he’d speak up if there was something else he wanted. He stretched back, changing the angle some as he wrapped his legs around Damon’s razor-sharp hips, and enjoyed the ride.

Afterwards, Damon didn’t spend any time lounging around in the buff, which was sort of a pity. He left Dean the bottle, and Dean lied about how they’d check in with Caroline before dispensing any justice (though Dean thought it might be a good idea to do that, he wasn’t about to make any promises).

He scratched at his belly and watched Damon make his way to the door. “You didn’t ask if I’d ever been bitten.”

Damon’s eyebrows went up. He looked like what people who knew jack shit about Lucifer would call satanic. “Have you?”

“I been fed on once by a vamp I killed. There was another—I let him feed. It was—we were on the same side.”

“I don’t suppose you’re telling me this because you want me to be your third,” Damon said. But he looked hopeful anyway.

“Don’t know you well enough.” Yeah, Damon could’ve drunk him down any time in the last hour. But it was one thing to take a risk like that, and another to ask for it. “Yet,” Dean finished, and enjoyed the flash of want in Damon’s eyes. Benny had said that whether the meal was voluntary or not didn’t change the taste, but that the taste wasn’t what mattered. He thought it might be the same for these vampires, despite their differences from the ones he’d known.

“Seriously,” Damon said, opening the door, “get out of town. You’d be a terrible waste of a corpse.”

Dean gave him a one-fingered salute, and Damon left.

Sam was going to bitch him out for getting drunk on duty and failing to report back. But he’d gotten laid, and if he wasn’t wrong he’d gotten Damon interested. Whether or not there was anything for them to kill in Mystic Falls, Dean was pretty sure that having a vampire who wanted him alive for later would be good insurance. 

Dean wasn’t the smartest gun in the armory, but once in a while, he had a good day.


End file.
